


Pretending

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Combefeyrac, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the way you left me, I'm not pretending."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretending

**Author's Note:**

> AU, future. Les Amis did not die at the barricade and presumably go on to live normal lives. Inspired by Mika's "Happy Ending".
> 
> As a warning, this is Courfeyrac/Combeferre, in a romantic sense, and obviously not exactly canon. I do my best to portray the characters in a relatively canon fashion, but if not-entirely-canon boyslash is not your cup of tea, you may want to make use of that handy-dandy back button right about now.
> 
> This was the very first Les Miserables fic I ever posted online, with the support of the fabulous Sythar.

One week was longer than they had ever been apart since they had become lovers.

Courfeyrac itched just a little for the comforting presence he had come to know so well, but that era of his life was firmly past now. He smiled dutifully at his wife-to-be and focused on her voluptuous figure and pretty face, and all was well again.

Jehan visited on Tuesday, waxing poetic in every direction about flowers and brides and new beginnings. Ultimately, it came back to the same thing. "It's odd not to see you every day, Courfeyrac," Jehan told him earnestly, "Even Enjolras is remarking on the lack of your laughter. Will you come back to the meetings after your wedding?"

The meetings of Les Amis had changed over the years; they had continued meeting after the success of the revolution, now only for the fact that it had become a habit to exist as a group, but as they all successively graduated from the university, the meetings had eventually been moved to Joly's apartments, then Combeferre's house. The current location, of course, contributed a great deal to Courfeyrac's recent lack of attendance, so he answered Jehan with, "I suppose we shall see whether my wife will allow it."

"I'll tell them," said Jehan carefully.

* * *

Two weeks was longer than they had ever been apart since Les Amis.

That time, Combeferre had been called away for the holidays, and Courfeyrac's own trip had happened to overlap so that they barely missed each other in between. It was before they had even known each other at all well, but Courfeyrac found himself feeling just a little emptier as he remembered.

His future wife was away most of the week, planning bouquets and gown laces and trousseaus with her mother and sisters. Courfeyrac found his house too quiet, the streets too deafening; he passed by the Corinthe one afternoon and nearly went inside from habit.

On Friday morning, Joly and Bossuet dropped in to report on the meeting the night before. Enjolras was still working on a series of bills that he wanted Les Amis to help him push within the government, Grantaire had gotten drunk enough to flirt with one of Combeferre's housemaids, and Prouvaire had written a disturbing poem of darkness and death. Nothing was said of Combeferre, and Courfeyrac could not bring himself to ask.

It was past midnight when Joly and Bossuet finally left Courfeyrac's house, the three having talked into the night like old times. By nearly two in the morning he admitted to himself that he was unlikely to fall asleep. Courfeyrac spent the rest of the evening pacing his floor and sitting on the edge of his bed, trying not to think about the meeting. He failed miserably.

In all honesty, he sorely missed his old friends. After so many years spent in the back room of the Musain or at the Corinthe, with his friends being loud and interesting and perfectly themselves around him every evening, Courfeyrac was uncomfortable without them for so long. But—how could he return now? How could he ever return to Combeferre's house, after having left it in the fashion he had, knowing it would never be quite the same?

Over and over he built himself up, telling himself he would attend the next meeting without thinking of things that should be dead, but each time he imagined the scenario, he would remember all the reasons he had not gone since the last time. He picked up a pen and wrote a letter to Combeferre, then threw it into the fire and wrote another. The second was also disposed of in the flames.

Late the next morning, the maid found him at his desk with ink on his face and a crumpled half-written letter in his hand.

* * *

A month was longer than they had ever been apart since they had met. Of course, Courfeyrac had continued to think this of every day recently. Time had begun to slow further, until he could barely stand to wake up at all. One morning he had passed the Café Musain and could not stop himself from entering. Inside, he was sorely disappointed when he found that he knew none of the men in the back room, and their chatter gave him no relief.

A few days before his wedding, Grantaire turned up at his door with several bottles and a sympathetic smile. The entire evening, Grantaire said nothing of Courfeyrac's fiancée, or Combeferre, or Les Amis. In fact, the usually tactless cynic ranted on other, more trivial things and did not push at all even when Courfeyrac mentioned his concerns.

"I can't go back, Grand R," he sighed, reaching for a new bottle. "You understand?"

Grantaire simply nodded. "I do."

It was after the wedding the next day that Courfeyrac realized he had not seen Combeferre at all. He had spoken briefly to Prouvaire, who had mentioned that Combeferre had attended, but somehow Combeferre had managed to leave before Courfeyrac noticed.

His wife was lovely, just the sort of girl he might have chosen as a mistress when he was a student, but he returned to his own rooms after the wedding night rituals were complete, once again unable to sleep. It was then that he had the sudden realization that Combeferre would never more be part of his life. Perhaps in a few months they would hear of Combeferre's engagement, and they would both have families and futures without each other, without the closeness and friendship and bond that Courfeyrac had never realized he would miss so awfully.

He found himself thinking of how strange it was that the idea of being apart from Combeferre had never crossed his mind, not even though he knew all along that they would both be married to eligible young ladies and have heirs one day. Somehow, he had thought—but then he had actually become engaged. When he told Combeferre, he was expecting anger, indifference, even acceptance with the idea that Courfeyrac's marriage would not change their relationship. Never in a hundred thousand years would he have predicted Combeferre's gentle resignation.

"It is natural for you to be with your bride," Combeferre had told him with a smile, "so I believe it best for you to devote all your time to her." Without his serene expression ever faltering, or any semblance of hesitation, Combeferre had helped to put away Courfeyrac's belongings into his trunks. Courfeyrac had taken his things and returned to his own house, because everyone knew Combeferre was never wrong.

Afterwards, Courfeyrac could not bring himself to face Combeferre again. It was quite obvious to Courfeyrac, who had never imagined leaving Combeferre's side, that he had viewed the relationship differently than Combeferre. Of course Combeferre was correct; it was expected of Courfeyrac to play the doting husband, the responsible father. Combeferre was correct, yet Courfeyrac could not shake the unbearable sense of loss.

In the wake of his departure from Combeferre's side, Courfeyrac had refrained from attending any more meetings.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. Courfeyrac found his wife to be pleasant company, though never enough to quite take his mind from his friends. Time passed, somehow. His thoughts turned to mundane things: dinner menus and garden parties, and accompanying his wife to the boutiques for a new frock. In the winter after Courfeyrac's wedding, Enjolras finally came to him and asked him to return to the meetings.

"I need your help," said Enjolras, "and it does seem imbalanced without you to center us."

"I…" Courfeyrac was unsure how to respond.

"I expect to see you this Tuesday, then."

"Wait, Enjolras—"

But he was already gone.

* * *

At Enjolras's inviolable word, Courfeyrac took himself off to Combeferre's house the following Tuesday. He turned back thrice and cursed himself for being a coward each time, remembering Enjolras's command. Some small part of him, too, he recognized, wanted to be there, with the people whose company he enjoyed, and with Combeferre. They had once been friends, had they not? They could go back to that. They must go back to that.

Four times he nearly turned back, but the thought of Enjolras's disapproval and Courfeyrac's own desire to see his dearest friends again sustained him through the fear. At the door to Combeferre's, however, Courfeyrac found himself hesitating. Could he truly playact the part of the jovial carefree friend-to-all again? Did he honestly want to?

His thoughts were interrupted by Bahorel, arriving shortly afterward. "You coming inside?" Bahorel asked, in that direct way of his, knocking loudly at the door. A maid opened the door for the two of them, and Courfeyrac found himself following Bahorel through it.

Inside waited floods of emotions, memories of moments and other things long sealed inside envelopes hidden beneath the slats of the drawers in his mind. Bahorel looked concerned. "Courfeyrac? You're well?" The other nodded weakly in response, not having a better one to give. Sternly, Courfeyrac thought to himself that he was a mature married man now; he would learn to leave the past in its place.

Enjolras was holding his meeting in the sitting room, where the others had already gathered. The absolute _familiarity_ of the scene shocked Courfeyrac—there were Joly and L'aigle curled up comfortably together in the corner of the long sofa, and at the desk was Jehan with a pen and a pink old-fashioned waistcoat, along with Feuilly, still looking tired and overworked. Bahorel joined Grantaire, who was nursing a drink of some sort in a chair at the corner of the room. Enjolras presided sternly from a chair near the fire, talking of equality and the welfare of all men, and some sort of policy he was drafting to further both these things, which he wanted the others to help him publicize.

It was difficult to look at Combeferre, though. The group's eternal guide and caretaker was watching the proceedings from his position behind Enjolras's chair. The smile on Combeferre's face was benevolent, almost as though he were watching his own children. He was calm, as always, and so at peace with the world. Suddenly Courfeyrac was reminded that he was the only one who was unable to sleep and wrote crumpled illegible letters at night. Combeferre had always been the more rational.

Courfeyrac clenched his fists tightly and focused on Enjolras's voice.

* * *

After the meeting, some of the others stayed behind to converse, just as they had when they had been students at the Musain. It was then that Feuilly pulled Courfeyrac aside. "Mon ami," said Feuilly gently, "Whatever quarrel it is you have with Combeferre, you should tell him. I believe you are not the only one who feels ill at ease."

Courfeyrac surveyed him, but could find no signs that Feuilly was subtly suggesting anything other than what he had said, and nodded. "Perhaps it's better to wait until things are quieter."

A shrug. "Perhaps. I'd say the sooner you resolve your problem, the longer you will enjoy the reunion. Combeferre is generally quite reasonable."

With that, Feuilly left him standing at the table, lost in thought.

* * *

Courfeyrac stood by the door for quite a while, thinking of many things: bittersweet wine the night before his wedding, ink splashed across his fingers in the mornings, the enormity of his bed when he lay on it alone and studied the way the hangings fell from the frame, but also a shared candle over a table at the Corinthe, a cool hand on his hot forehead, the green of the scarf he had never managed to throw away, and the overwhelming sense of security he never quite found anymore.

It was at this time that Combeferre found him and led him into the hall.

"You look as though you wish to say something to me," said Combeferre when they were alone.

"Yes," answered Courfeyrac, surprising himself with his boldness. "You know why I have not attended lately."

Tactfully: "I do."

"It is still not quite easy for me to be in this house."

"I apologize for the trouble. It has not been quite the same without your presence."

"Yes. I heard from the others."

"If there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable, you will tell me?"

Courfeyrac nodded, and Combeferre made a motion to leave. On impulse, Courfeyrac put a hand on his arm. "Tell me one thing."

"Yes?" said Combeferre.

"Have you ever thought of me since?"

It was many questions in one, and Courfeyrac was asking several things at once. Did you miss the time we shared? Did you recall the memories? Were you, too, unable to sleep of nights?

There was an instant of silence, as the world waited on the edge of a breath.

"Yes."

It was the answer Courfeyrac wanted. He found himself moving forward of his own accord toward Combeferre, like going home. In a moment, he was holding Combeferre tightly in an embrace.

"I was never quite able to come back and face this," Courfeyrac told him. "I wrote you letters, but I could never send them. When I told you of my wedding, you sent me on my way without any fuss, so I thought for you it had always been temporary. I had thought of futures."

"In a way, it was." Truthful, quiet. "I thought it would be best for you to do as you were expected to do. Your duty is to her, not to me, and that was a future I could not change. I did not wish for a future where you were mine second."

Courfeyrac's eyes turned hopeful, then faded into resigned understanding. "Would you like that I should go, then?"

In that moment, Combeferre-the-caretaker and Combeferre-the-politician and all the hundreds of Combeferres who existed for the good of the world fell away, leaving behind only Combeferre-the-man.

"No."

In the face of Combeferre's honesty, and his soul stripped bare, Courfeyrac knew, for better or worse, he would never leave this man behind him.

"I cannot exchange her for you," said Courfeyrac truthfully, "but I cannot exist without you. Whatever you are willing to give, I will take, but I wish to have your presence again."

"I sent you away because I thought it best. Now you have returned, I don't believe I could let you leave entirely again. Nor can I give you my friendship without giving you everything, but if you have no qualms, I too have wished for your presence."

"Then it is decided."

"It will not be easy," Combeferre warned.

"No. But it will be _our_ future."

"So it will."

Days and months and weeks spun in Courfeyrac's mind, but the time they had been separated no longer mattered. How long had they been apart? Courfeyrac only knew he wanted never to make the count anymore.


End file.
